Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Colin. 2014. “The Concrete and the Ephemeral of Electronic Music
Production.” Dancecult: The Journal of Electronic Dance Music Culture 6(1).
DOI: 10.12801/1947‐5403.2014.06.01.12
In the summer of 2012, one of my uncles made an unusual request: he asked me to
compile and send him a complete catalogue of my recorded music. This was to
include everything, from official releases to bootleg remixes and from electronic
dance music (EDM) to electronic music for modern dance. This task put me in a
position to reflect on my studio work and I was somewhat surprised by what that
process revealed. I had been operating under the unexamined assumption that a
finished recording was concrete in its fixedness, as manifested in its ability to be
played back or copied with self‐same exactitude. Approaching the ontology of
recordings from a broader perspective, however, I came to realize how ephemeral
records are, from their conditions of (re)creation and storage media, to their usage
by other people.
The Vagaries of Studio Music Production
The first tracks I recorded were made in the electronic music studios of Edmonton,
Alberta, Canada’s MacEwan University from 1997 to 1998.i The environment there
was at the crossroads of older analogue equipment and new digital technologies. I
will briefly outline a few of the issues that presented. Working with tape delays
provided rich echo effects, but not ones that were willing to sync with the Roland
TR‐707 Rhythm Composer (drum machine). The Roland SH‐101 analogue
synthesizer was capable of some gloriously quirky monophonic sounds that were
highly unstable and varied with the air pressure. SampleCell’s digital sampling
software and the sequencer in Studio Vision Pro’s digital audio workstation (DAW)
were generally reliable, but also prone to glitches that demanded to be
incorporated, rather than attempting Sisyphus‐like corrections. Recordings were
done on tape using analogue four‐track and/or digital eight‐track machines, while
masters were run onto either reel‐to‐reel or DAT tapes.
When I eventually built up my own project studio in 1999, I was relieved to
have what I thought was a more stable and reliable setup: Cubase as a DAW;
Propellerheads’ ReBirth software emulating a Roland TB‐303 Bass Line, as well as
Roland TR‐808 and TR‐909 Rhythm Composers; Propellerheads’ ReCycle for
chopping loops and samples; and the Roland Juno 106 digital/analogue keyboard
synthesizer. Later, I moved from Cubase to ProTools while upgrading the limited
sound‐set of ReBirth to the more fully featured Reason, further supplementing the
latter with software devices from Native Instruments. The sequencing, sound
generation, recording, editing and mixing capabilities of a computer‐based system
were as dependable (and flexible) as I had hoped, but digital data is subject to other
problems.
Most of the finished recordings from my project studio that have been
burned onto audio CDs remain playable, although some of the earliest have by now
expired. I have had hard drives fail, ZIP discs become obsolete and data CDs get
corrupted, thereby losing the tracks and working files stored on them.ii As I
upgraded my computers and operating systems, older software would no longer
work and was not always replaced—whether by choice or by being outmoded. A
program file from one DAW will not typically open in a DAW from a different
company and there are sometimes even problems opening files between different
versions of the same DAW. For all the vagaries of using hardware gear, at least a
physical synthesizer or reel‐to‐reel tape still works when computer software
changes. No technology is infallible, however, and hardware will eventually break
down just as tape will ultimately degrade.
I was able to bring together most of my tracks for the compilation, but a few
were lost to corruption of the media they were stored on, as well as lack of access to
the technology to play them back or recreate them. Amongst some of the surviving
tracks, I found a couple that I thought could use a bit of remixing. One of them had
only raw audio recordings of the main vocals and synthesizer parts to work with
because the rest of the track’s sequences and mixing belonged to software that had
long since become obsolete. Another had its working files stored on a data CD that
was corrupted, so all I was left with was the track on an audio CD. This forced me to
re‐edit and re‐master the recording without the ability to actually remix it, as has
sometimes been done by DJs when tweaking a commercial release by another artist
(Brewster and Broughton 2000: 176).
The capacity to remix a piece of music may in some ways seem unimportant
if one has a definitive recording of it, but the lack of this capacity makes the
recording into an artefact locked into its historicity. True to what Virgil Moorefield
has observed about popular music in general, electronic music is not usually based
on written notation, relying instead on timbre and rhythm (2005: xiv). This
underscores the contingency of electronic music production because of the way it is
even more wedded to the specifics of technology than, say, rock music and is
therefore vulnerable to the relentless drive of advancement, the ravages of
mechanical failure and challenges to data integrity. Re‐makes or covers are rare in
electronic music, while remixes and re‐edits are assigned a separate identity from
the original. Only exact copies are treated as being selfsame. This phenomenon led
me to some considerations about recorded music from another perspective.
Reconsidering Duplication, Distribution and Playback
Mechanical reproduction has had a profound impact on the fine arts, which has not
been lost on scholars. In the early twentieth century the Marxist cultural theorist
Walter Benjamin (1969[1935]) argued that the mass availability of industrially
reproduced art would liberate it from its bondage to ritual and its basis in private or
religious exhibition. He also saw mechanical reproductions as lacking the unique
aura of an original, but only echoing it in new contexts. Picking up where Benjamin
left off, artist and critic Douglas Davis (1995) theorized that digital reproduction
actually transfers the aura of the original onto the copy, thereby eliminating any
clear distinction between them. He further suggested that through digitization,
“Images, sounds, and words are received, deconstructed, rearranged, and restored
wherever they are seen, heard, and stored” (Davis 1995: 381). Benjamin’s notion of
aura is tied up with issues surrounding the unique autographic presence of physical
artwork, so ascribing it to allographic arts like music may be a bit of a stretch (c.f.,
Goodman 1976). The stronger part of Davis’ idea lies in underscoring the
reproducibility of digital media that elides any difference between master and
duplicate.iii He also notes the fundamental manipulability of digital media and
positions the audience squarely in the process of creation, echoing Roland Barthes
comment, “a text’s unity lies not in its origin but in its destination” (1977: 148).
Digital music presents a special case in the ongoing dialogue surrounding art
and reproduction. A genre like modern EDM is not a simulation of acoustic music,
but rather a simulacra that following Gilles Deleuze “is not degraded copy, rather it
contains a positive power which negates both original and copy, both model and
reproduction” (italics in original, 1983: 53).iv As a result, it plays by a slightly
different set of rules than other musics, such as jazz and folk, where a wider range of
variation is still viewed as being self‐similar (Seeger 1977). In digital music, copies
of recordings are no longer duplications, but rather part of a clonal colony, like a
field of genetically identical mushrooms that has reproduced by vegetative asexual
procreation.v The tight link between a track and exact copies simultaneously makes
the definitive recording more rigidly associated with the identity of the piece and
makes said identity more ephemeral because it has less tolerance for variation than
other musics.
To the best of my knowledge, my music has never been remixed by anyone
other than me, but I have done some promo‐only remixes of other peoples’ music
and some self‐remixes. The use of a part(s) of a recording in order to create a
derivative work further loosens the idea of the concrete autonomy of a record by re‐
contextualizing, reconceptualising and, in a sense, re‐creating. The term reordered
listening was coined by Sheena Hyndman to cover this phenomenon and is defined
as, “the experience of coming into contact with remixed music prior to experiencing
the source material that forms the basis of said remix” (2012: 15). A digital sample
or a key element of a complete recording is not enough to resurrect the original, but
perhaps there is a reincarnation or transfiguration in the remix. This shifting
identity is typically marked by a change of name that tacks the remixer’s descriptive
postscript onto the title. When re‐ordered listening occurs, the remix supersedes
temporally prior versions to become the original.
The vagaries of distribution and playback have their own effect on the
solidity of digital music. The catalogue I compiled for my uncle is all in MP3 format;
In fact, I have not released any of my music in analogue format since 1998 and my
most recent release (2012) is only available online. Digital distribution has helped
me to connect with a global audience, but also gives rise to existential problems for
my music once it leaves my studio. Beyond any cultural factors in its reception, I
know that my beats—as is the case with much high fidelity electronic music—can
sound very different depending on what type of playback equipment is used and the
environment it is diffused into, from smartphones and headphones, to home stereos
and car stereos, and on to nightclub speakers, FM radio and digital streaming.
Furthermore, sometimes only part of my music may be heard, such as in the TV
show Departures, where they used just the main groove and not the melody or
words of my tracks. Even the MP3 format itself can change the sound when the
original high quality audio files are converted.vi I mitigate this by using maximum
quality MP3s, but I have no control on what distributors or listeners do to the files.
The above examples do not necessarily destroy the identity of the piece, but rather
blur the seeming concreteness of the digital master.
Everyone’s a DJ: Improvisation and Manipulation
Recording gives plasticity to the fleeting, time‐based nature of music that is belied
by an increasing variety of disjunctures in dissemination and reception. If all music
is ontologically improvisation that varies only in degree, as the phenomenologist
Bruce Ellis Benson (2003) contends, then recorded music is no more concrete than
acoustic performance. Benson’s assertion is based on the lexical availability of the
word improve lying within improvise, such that composition, performance and
listening all to some extent take existing material and manoeuvre it in order to
create the experience of music. In light of Benson’s ontology of music as
improvisation and my own reflection on recorded music, I would venture to say that
a recording is not concrete at all, but rather concrète in its readiness to be
manipulated, transformed and re‐contextualized.
In the early 1940s, the French audio engineer and composer Pierre Schaeffer
conducted some of the first experiments in music making using pre‐recorded
sounds, which he called musique concrète. This involved everyday noises and/or
musical instruments being manipulated via turntable and eventually with reel‐to‐
reel tape machines. Years later he concluded that it was not enough to create a
totally new type of music; audiences would need to acquire new aesthetics and ear
training in order to appreciate it (Schaeffer 1959). I am not trying to suggest that
there is a direct lineage between Schaeffer’s turntable experiments and today’s DJs,
but rather to point out that audiences have become accustomed to the practice of
manipulating records. This is particularly true in EDM (and hip‐hop), where DJs
have become the unwitting successors of Schaeffer’s experiments. In another sense,
however, everyone is a DJ because of the improvisation involved in selecting,
diffusing and interpreting music, even when it is for his or her own solitary
enjoyment.
Re‐ordered listening is no longer limited to studio remixes. What used to
require turntablist‐level scratch DJing or a stage full of gear now occurs live with
relative ease thanks to the assistance of technologies that have emerged in the first
decade of the twenty‐first century. The vinyl record and turntables—in all their
mechanical glory—remain an important part of DJ culture, but there has been a
massive increase in the reliance on digital playback technologies supported by
online distribution (Farrugia and Swiss 2005, Montano 2010). Software like Ableton
Live, hardware like DJ CD players, hardware/software systems like Serato Scratch
Live and various types of audio processing effects all present DJs with significant
real‐time control of recorded music, allowing them to essentially remix on the fly.
Most of this technology is capable of assisting or even automating basic DJ skills,
such as beat matching, which I would argue does not simply make the job easier, but
actually puts the onus on DJs to be more creative in their sets. When I have done
gigs using M‐Audio’s Torq software/hardware (similar to Serato), I make an effort
to loop certain sections, use effects processing, trigger short samples and draw out
extended beat‐mixing segues with other tracks in order to create new versions of
tracks as part of a DJ/producer performance. Re‐ordered listening in relation to DJ
sets is becoming increasingly common, as the role of the DJ has been democratized
by digital equipment.
Ephemeral Technology and the Duality of Concrete/Concrète
The tribulations of music production and recording technology are not a new
discovery (Moorefield 2005: 99–102). What made them stand out to me was the
retrospective process of compiling a recording catalogue for my uncle. Since I built
my first project studio in 1999, I had generally considered my productions to be
stable objects: during creation working files could be played back at will with total
precision, while finished recordings could be used to generate exact digital copies.
On a broader scale, however, ontological cracks manifested themselves in this
mental schema when I realized the existence of the technology undergirding music
production and reproduction is severely bounded.
This recursive shift in perspective led me to further considerations regarding
the life of a track beyond the confines of my studio. Upon reflection I saw that digital
reproduction and distribution, combined with the proliferation of playback
technologies for both home and professional use, have furthered a paradigm that
underscores the improvisatory ontology of recorded music. Despite the nuances
that have been added to my outlook on digital and electronic music, a finished
recording has a certain degree of undeniable concreteness because of its capacity
for exact playback and reproduction. I do not either deny the possibility that some
people may maintain legacy equipment and a Herculean approach to the
preservation of their recordings, working files and the use of their music by others.
My epiphany is simply that the studio, storage media and playback formats of a
track are, in the long run, ephemeral, while the inherently improvisatory nature of
diffusion, performance and reception makes even definitive recordings concrète in
their malleability.
Author Bio
Colin McGuire is a Ph.D. candidate in music at York University in Toronto, Canada.
He has positioned his doctoral work in ethnomusicology at the intersection of music
and martial arts, but he also DJs and produces under the name Ronin E‐Ville.
McGuire’s music has been nominated for an Independent Music Award, has been in
the top 20 of the Earshot! Canadian radio charts for electronica, and is featured on
the Gemini award winning travel TV show, Departures.
<http://about.me/colinpatrickmcguire>
Works Cited
Barthes, Roland. 1977. “The Death of the Author.” In Image Music Text, trans.
Stephen Heath, 142–148. London: Fontana Press.
Benjamin, Walter. 1969 [1935]. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction.” In Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt, trans. Harry Zohn, 1–26.
New York: Schocken Books.
Benson, Bruce. 2003. The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue: A Phenomenology of
Music. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.
Brewster, Bill and Frank Broughton. 2000. Last Night a DJ Saved My Life: The History
of the Disc Jockey. New York: Headline Book Publishing.
Davis, Douglas. 1995. “The Work of Art in the Age of Digital Reproduction (An
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Remix on Patterns of Music Production and Consumption. Ph.D. Dissertation,
York University.
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<http://dx.doi.org/10.1017/S0261143010000449>
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Notes
i At the time, the institution was called Grant MacEwan Community College.
ii The working files of a studio project include all audio recordings and program
specific data needed to play back a piece. This involves the musical and engineering
elements such as the composition, arrangement and mix, which themselves are
dependent upon the software environment including the DAW, plug‐ins and sample
libraries.
iii A 16 bit, 44.1 kHz, AIF master is the same as a 16 bit, 44.1 kHz, AIF copy and other
high quality formats (e.g., WAV, AAC, OGG and FLAC, as well as CD and DVD audio)
are indistinguishable to all but the most discriminating audiophiles—if at all.
iv Detractors of electronic music might be more inclined to follow Jean Beaudrillard’s
negative view of simulacrum, where truly effective simulation leads to destruction
of meaning through a hyperreal state that exchanges signs for other signs.
v I am indebted to Bret Battey for introducing me to the idea of clonal colonies,
which he discussed in a talk at York University during the winter of 2014.
vi MP3s use lossy compression, which results in audio quality that is inversely
proportional to file size. In extreme cases it can even add sound artefacts during the
conversion process.